


Lord, Save Us From Ourselves

by NannyOgg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NannyOgg/pseuds/NannyOgg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is still for a moment, their breath loud in the air, and then Stiles drapes himself across Derek’s back.  Derek can feel how much smaller he is, thinner, but Stiles has always been long-limbed and he cages Derek in with his arms, wraps him fully in the scent and heat of his body.  He grabs Derek’s hands, long fingers wrapping over his palms, and pulls them above his head.  And then he asks, sweet and solicitous, “Better?”</p><p>*****</p><p>Not even a hint of plot, just straight porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord, Save Us From Ourselves

This is not - this isn't - Derek's jittery in his skin, burning to leave, to go, hide, but Stiles is a solid weight on his back, his cock a sweet spark in his ass, and all he can do, God, all he can do is bury his face in the sheets and _whine_. Stiles hums and stills, cock sweet-white-hot, piercing him to his core, murmurs in his hear "Good boy, beautiful, so good for me. Look at you" and then presses a filthy, open kiss to the back of his neck and Derek, Derek can’t move a finger, can barely breathe. 

Stiles has his teeth in the nape of Derek’s neck now, not biting down, just resting there, holding him.  Gentle.  He’s breathing slow and damp, hips completely still, holding Derek with just the heat of his breath and the weight of his cock.  A shiver works its way up Derek’s body, through his trembling hamstrings and his shoulder blades to the hairs on his neck.  He trembles and _clenches_ and Stiles laughs, low and sweet against his neck.  His teeth scrape over the tender skin there as he moves his mouth to Derek’s ear, where he chuckles low. 

“Good boy,” he says fondly, and then he sets his teeth in the lobe of Derek’s ear and tugs.  Derek can’t help a second shiver, a tremble deep in the muscle, hamstrings so tight he thinks they may snap.

Stiles licks his ear thoughtfully, and then he says, “You’re going to do that again.  And again.  Until you shiver apart under me.”

He seals his promise with a dirty grind that makes Derek’s lungs seize.  Derek’s panting now, as Stiles raises himself up, the weight of his body concentrated over Derek’s hips and ass.  The loss of his body heat makes Derek want to tremble again.

And Stiles, Stiles rides him now, screws into him deliberate and evil, and Derek never knew why people used that word before but now he knows.  He _knows_.  Stiles doesn’t change his pace, doesn’t rabbit in the way Derek would have expected, had you asked him a month ago, just keeps to this awful, awful, relentless tempo and it _pulls Derek apart piece by fucking piece_.

His vision has gone black and a little fuzzy at the corners, his breath still catching in his lungs, and Stiles is still going.  He move like something unfathomable and ancient, heavy and implacable with the weight of years and _Jesus_ , Stiles must have learned this, must have mapped this out on other bodies before Derek’s.  He must have spent countless nights in the dark of other people’s beds, fumbling through the motions until he stripped away all the awkwardness to leave behind just this honed purpose, this single-minded skill.

Derek chokes at that thought, lets out this unattractive snort, and Stiles chuckles.  He pulls Derek’s hips back, secures them with his hands – God, those _hands_ – and drives in faster now, balls slapping Derek’s perineum.  Derek doesn’t do this – Derek never, has never.  He wants to struggle, wants to buck Stiles off, to mount him and makes him writhe, but Derek can’t move.  He _cannot move_.  Boneless and lost, he whines deep in his throat.

Stiles stops abruptly.  Everything is still for a moment, their breath loud in the air, and then Stiles drapes himself across Derek’s back.  He can feel how much smaller he is, thinner, but Stiles has always been long-limbed and he cages Derek in with his arms, wraps him fully in the scent and heat of his body.  He grabs Derek’s hands, long fingers wrapping over his palms, and pulls them above his head.  And then he asks, sweet and solicitous, “Better?”

Derek bucks into him, shocked, and he can feel the smirk Stiles presses into the skin over his shoulder blade.  Stiles squeezes his wrists once and retracts his hands, tucks them beside Derek’s chest where he has better leverage.  Derek can feel his breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck, can smell his sweat and the musk of _them_ , all a muddled haze pierced only by the brilliant sweetness of his cock, and Derek’s treacherous body tips his head to the side and bares his neck.  Stiles huffs a laugh into his ear.

“Bitch,” he says, warm and fond, and he drags his cock out and then fucks back in in one long, relentless drive and Derek _comes_.

No warning, no fanfare, just a cock bulldozing his prostate and a light, happy laugh on the back of his neck and Derek is _gone_.

When Derek claws his way back out of the grey haze, ears still ringing, Stiles has somehow flipped them around, manhandled Derek’s heavy, werewolf body so he’s propped against Stiles’ chest, Stiles’ coltish legs sprawled on either side of him.

“Mmm.  It’s better like this, right?”

Derek shifts and sparks jolt through his belly.  Stiles’ cock is still there, he realizes, Derek is still opened around him, warm and welcoming.  Derek clenches, surprised and wrung out.

Stiles murmurs approvingly in his ear, “Mhmm. Yeah,” and then he hooks his chin over Derek’s shoulder, peers down at his chest, and says, “You have beautiful tits.”

Derek … doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what to say.  No one’s ever – he’s not, he’s not a _girl_ , but Stiles is reaching forward now, cupping his palms over Derek’s chest and rolling his nipples between his fingers.  “Gorgeous titties, baby, should flaunt them more often.”

He’s fucking up into Derek in lazy, sporadic strokes, hefting his … his tits in those large, warm hands, and Derek can feel his cock trying so desperately to get fat again, can almost feel how swollen his prostate is.  He drifts there for a while, caught and caged between those long limbs, until Stiles says conversationally, “You know, one day I’m going to come all over these pretty little tits, rub it in and march you around town with your shirt off, let everyone smell you, see you, owned and kept.”

Just like that, Derek’s erect again, cock thick and straining.  Stiles is fucking up faster now, grunting with the effort of it, coltish legs braced on the bed.  He’s nailing Derek’s prostate on every thrust, sharp and sure and confident.  Derek can’t do anything, can’t move, his head rolling on his neck, just takes and takes, and then Stiles reaches down, runs the back of his thumb up the frenulum and whispers “Come, baby, come all over your little tits,” and Derek, damn him, does.

Stiles roles them over as Derek’s still coming, shaking with the brutal force of it.  He sprawls across Derek’s back, humps in once or twice, and then seizes up, groans long and deep as he comes.  Derek wishes he could feel it, could feel the splash of Stiles’ come in his inner sanctum, but he’ll settle for the pulse of Stiles’ cock and the way his chest heaves, pressed against Derek’s back.

Derek dozes off like that, Stiles’ cock anchoring him, and he doesn’t dream.

He wakes up to emptiness and cold air and panics, the room dark around him.  He flips onto his back and scrabbles at the sheets, searching.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Stiles emerges from the darkness and clambers back onto the bed beside him, eyes concerned, and Derek doesn’t think, just rolls onto his stomach and presents himself, ass in the air.  Stiles cups a hand across the back of his neck, just holds him there for countless breaths, and then he’s nudging Derek, rolling him back over and shoving his legs apart.  He finds where Derek is warm and pliant, eager, and sinks two fingers in with no preamble.  He grinds them into his prostate and then stops, looks down at Derek.  “Better?”

Derek looks away, because he doesn’t – he’s never, but Stiles nods to himself and sinks down, pillowing his head on Derek’s chest.  They fall asleep like that, Stiles’ come in Derek’s ass and his fingers against his prostate and his breath whistling across his nipple.

Kept.  Owned.  Claimed.   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Isn't it just awful how when you write porn it becomes the most clinical and unexciting thing you've ever read? Why do we do this?


End file.
